Then from the far caverns came monsters, livid with desire
by thejacinthsong
Summary: His arms were unbound and free, and yet they were down by his side as if strapped there, and he could not move. He struggled to force any muscle, any nerve, to twitch, but he failed to even blink, forced to stare straight ahead into the mad eyes of James Moriarty. Sherlock's nightmares were a product of the two years he spent chasing; but now he feared sleep. (Sherlock/Molly)
1. Chapter 1

_"Their wings drip-dripping  
With blood  
That fell upon the earth.  
It, groaning thing,  
Turned black and sank.  
Then from the far caverns  
Of dead sins  
Came monsters, livid with desire."_

_- Stephen Crane_

* * *

He could not move. His arms were unbound and free, and yet they were down by his side as if strapped there, and he could not _move. _He struggled to force any muscle, any nerve, to _twitch, _but he failed to even blink, forced to stare straight ahead into the mad eyes of James Moriarty. In the moment, Sherlock forgot his suicide, forgot the death Mycroft had _confirmed: _he was in front of him, very much alive and laughing, twirling a silver blade between his fingers as he circled his targets.

_("The final problem..." Moriarty had once pondered, pacing in front of Sherlock. And he had solved it, he had done away with Moriarty and his network and saved _everyone_.)_

Mrs. Hudson was sobbing into her gag, bruised and cut all over, Sherlock could barely make out any skin that wasn't swelling and bleeding profusely. She didn't even push against her constraints, only leaned into them, accepting the fate that Sherlock has thrust her in. Lestrade looked furious, without a hint of fear, but he stared straight at Sherlock, opting to focus his anger on Sherlock instead of the lilting Irish maniac. _You bastard, _his eyes seemed to scream, _you did this to us. _The vein in John's neck bulged out in his anger, the venom in his glare enough for Sherlock to believe them both. Tears burst out of Sherlock's eyes, and silently he pleaded with the madman: _forget the game, just let them go, you can have me. _Moriarty's eyes widened comically in surprise and he threw his head back like he could hear Sherlock's thoughts and his laughter rang and echoed, bouncing around Sherlock's mind and _searing _itself into his memory.

"Sorry _Sherly!" _Moriarty told him cheerily, "You should have died when you had the _chaaaance!" _

_But I did, _Sherlock thought desperately, _I died and you died but you've still won. _He was frantic, choked with panic and fear, because he couldn't see her, and he no longer knew if it was Moriarty's continued arrogance and blindness, or if he could also see that in Sherlock's thoughts. Moriarty's grin grew as the idea finished passing through Sherlock's mind, his eyes as dead as the day on the roof.

"Looking for something, _Sherly?" _He chirped with a bounce, and clicked his fingers. Molly Hooper fell out of thin air, bound with barbed wire, that cut thin ropes of scarlet into her pale skin and left droplets to smear. Sherlock roared desperately, and in his mind, he saw himself launch at Moriarty - _forget the bloody game - _and then with his fingernails ripped the smugness and insanity from his face, tore out his eyes and his heart, until he was _dead _and they were all _safe. _But that remained a fantasy; Moriarty only chuckled at Sherlock's turmoil, kicking Molly over until she fell onto her back, her dead body curled towards Sherlock. And then, how he _howled. _

Her eyes were blank and there was nothing left, devoid of the hope and cheer and _light. _The only flesh that remained unstained by her spilt blood was marred by the carving that haunted him: _I O U. _Her chest was a gaping hole, and he looked up and -

James Moriarty, Richard Brook, _whoever that man truly was, _held her heart in his hands, holding it out to Sherlock. Then he took a match to it, and laughed and laughed as it went up, and _up _in flames, as Sherlock _screamed - _

* * *

He came to with a choked and ragged gasp, bolting up out of _his _bed, greeted by nothing but darkness and silence, even though he could still hear Moriarty's laughter ringing in his ears. His cheeks were damp, and he was bathed in cold sweat. He threw off the sheets in disgust, frantic to be free of the clinging material entrapping him, still panting for breath. His emotions and the echoes of his dream threatened to overwhelm him - and he thought he might burst.

So he shut down his brain, and narrowed onto a single thought.

Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff to hide his pyjamas and fled 221B, stopping to ensure Mrs. Hudson's safety. Her herbal soothers seemed to be of some use; she did not stir as he stumbled through her flat, unable to regain his usual light footing. Setting off and out of the building, he was nearly run over flagging down a cab. He threw himself at the third one who passed him, refusing to let it go. He growled the directions and passed more and more money until the nervous man behind the wheel acquiesced and drove on. He assured himself that John was curled happily in his bed with Mary, and watched Lestrade pace his office and down his fourth coffee of the night (he was trying to limit Sherlock - trying to teach him a lesson, but he would soon surrender).

His throat was clogged on the way to his final stop, because of them all, she had broken the most rules. His brain - logical as ever - had broken down the essential facts that it was only a nightmare, most likely due to the large meal he had had delivered to 221B late in the evening before he had collapsed into his bed. He knew the images that passed by his closed lids were false and had no basis in reality. Every person was safe, Moriarty _was_ dead, and he should not be doing what he was doing, but all he could see were his friends in peril, because of the madman he had thoughtlessly courted, and Molly Hooper mutilated, _extinguished,_ because she had helped him.

He chucked the remaining money in his wallet at the grumbling cabbie, and broke into her building less subtly than he would usually pride himself on. Her door was firmly shut and locked, but he banged and banged on it with an open palm, his breath coming is short, staccato bursts, and yes, those were still tears that formed at the corners of his eyes, and he could not seem to stop them. He had lost all control over his body, and he kept smashing his hand against the wood. The door groaned, and as it occurred to him that it would break it fell open, and he almost smacked Molly in the face.

She looked tired and scared, two things he never wanted to see on her face. Her sleepwear was abysmal and simple and maddeningly unflattering. Her hair was staticky and smushed against her cheek, falling out of the ties, and she had been drooling in her sleep, but she was _alive _and annoyed, but unmarked and her chest was whole. So with a wild cry he crushed her to his chest and ran his hands over every inch of her person, not caring if Tom was there (though Molly Hooper had not had sex tonight, and if Tom had been there, then they would have been having 'lots of sex'), because Moriarty was in the ground and he _would not touch Molly Hooper._

"Sherlock, _Sherlock." _Molly repeated, with concern, trying to catch his attention. Tentatively and gently she wrapped her arms around him, massaging his back muscles still tensed with fear. She was so warm and welcoming, _without question, _there to comfort and hold him, and her kindness was _killing _him, so he buried his face in her warm neck to feel the rapid pulse of her still-beating heart, so that he didn't have to face her.

Eventually, when his heart had finally slowed, and his breathing had _finally _evened out, Molly gradually pulled away. He whined and tried to grasp her and return her to their original positions, but she ducked his attempts, pulling him into her flat and shutting the door behind him. He was limp and unmoving, waiting for her to take his hand and lead him through the flat he barely knew.

_(And why, why had he not taken the time to know it, to know _her_?)_

She took him to the bathroom, and flipped on the shower. She turned back to him and pushed his jacket off. He didn't help her, only stared, admiring every angle of her living, breathing form. She lifted his shirt from his skin, pushed his boxers down to his ankles and helped his shivering body into the shower. The water beat a heavy patter against his skin, as Molly with her painfully gentle hands washed away the sweat and grime that coated his skin. Sherlock shut his eyes and stifled a sob, pushing into her touch.

When he was clean and the water was losing its heat, Molly shut off the spray, and helped him out of the tub. She dried him carefully, as if he might break apart in her hands.

_(You foolish thing, _he wanted to tell her despairingly, _it's my touch that destroys.)_

Molly pulled him into her bedroom (and wearily he took in the surroundings: the softer shades of blue and red, the number of scented candles balanced precariously upon various surfaces. Odd knick knacks were pooled in a small ceramic bowl: hair ties, odd change and keys - and a silver bow whose memory made him _cringe), _and encouraged him into clothing that had belonged to one of her brothers; forgotten here after a visit, because they were too large for Tom.

_(And he was relieved, because he could not wear the clothes she had taken off another man.)_

She pushed him down onto the mattress, and with some struggling tucked him under the duvet. He made a shocked, almost inhuman noise when Molly tried to pull away and leave him. His hand shot out to grip her wrist, yanking her onto the bed (because he was strong, _too strong, _which he feared would be the end of all of them) and enveloped her into a tight embrace. Molly didn't struggle or hit him (which she should, because she deserved happiness, and everything that he _wasn't) _or even complain: she accepted him, as she always had, without judgment. She hugged him even closer, which he had never doubted she would, and whispered the full summary of the autopsy she had conducted on Lestrade's poisoning victim that morning. He would laugh, because he could picture the horror on John's face at her method of comfort (which _worked, _because his breath was slowing, and his eyes were beginning to seek sleep). It scared him, and so he interrupted her, his chest wound tight, and slurred wetly against her neck, a jumbled diatribe that didn't make sense in his head before he even said it. But it slipped out anyway, because it felt too important to let it lie still.

"He had you, he _took you Molly, _and I couldn't - I _couldn't, _and your _eyes - " _She let him babble without shifting or protesting his bruising hold on her that he could not surrender.

The last thing he knew was Molly's _(his) _heart thrumming steadfastly and unrelenting against his lips.

* * *

He was falling, falling, _falling. _He couldn't see or smell or touch, he was only aware of blackness and whistling air that buffeted him. He could not sense ground; nothing solid to take refuge in. There was only the endlesstumble, and he prayed for death.

His waking was less dramatic: his eyes blinked open to the cold, sobering light of day, aware of a warm figure pressed tightly against him. He tried to pull back to look at her (he knew she was safe, but he needed to look), and she only mumbled and shuffled closer to him. Sherlock attempted to avoid the slight shudder that trickled down his spine at her proximity: her breath was on his neck and brushed hotly past his ear. She had one arm stretched underneath his body, curled around his back and hip and the other thrown across his chest, her legs hopelessly tangled with his.

It was so frighteningly intimate, no matter the madness that had driven him here. What was horrifying was how much he wanted to stay there buried in her hold and gradually wake her, softly, gently, bringing her back to wakefulness without the weight that he carried. But he couldn't, he reminded himself, because she was engaged and Sherlock was sure that the man, predictably dull as he seemed, would not appreciate or understand Molly asleep in her bed with another person. And he had _promised _John (and himself) that he would not destroy this relationship.

So he squeezed her once more, and slipped away into the early morning, back to 221 B. He left his clothing there, though he couldn't figure out _why._

* * *

He managed to avoid Bart's for over two weeks, even though he knew that Molly didn't deserve any of this (a fact that had been true their entire acquaintance). He kept himself busy, _throwing _himself into the wedding preparations (he didn't know why John and Lestrade continued to joke that they were more "a woman's area," as Mary was just as hopeless as John; nothing compared to Sherlock) and whatever case - no matter how mundane - that was left in his inbox.

His sleeping was no better, and he began to avoid it at all costs, spending nights pacing. His nerves remained sharpened and frayed by his exile, which left him paranoid and jumpy with every creak and sigh that rattled his home. He found himself on more than one occasion needing to forcibly stop himself from going to Molly's, reminding himself of Tom (and he found he lost interest after the thought).

* * *

_I have a hand that will be binned if no one takes it off my hands - MH_

Sherlock spent twenty seven minutes precisely obsessing over the particular dilemma, because while he was still implementing a strategy based on aloofness and distance from Molly Hooper, he really needed that hand. The scientist in him finally won, and he set off for Bart's with a desperation not entirely related to the severed body part.

_On my way. SH._

He found Molly in the lab, doing paperwork that was an utter waste of her talents and time. She jumped when he entered, fidgety with her own nerves. A genuine smile graced her features (and he wondered if she gave the same smile to Tom) and she busied herself with removing the hand from the refrigerator behind her to give over to Sherlock.

"Do you know what you're going to do with it?" She asked quietly, normally, no inflection of awkwardness or nervousness at his presence (and he almost missed it - it meant she had moved on more than he liked to pretend). Sherlock shook his head sharply, unable to settle on a lie.

"I have several ideas that I need to funnel down."

She nodded easily. "Good, good. Coffee?"

"No need," he said quickly, "I had not planned to stay here long." Molly only nodded again, but it struck him that this was not what she had been asking.

"You are welcome to join me at 221 B. For a coffee. Or tea. I possess an abundance of both." His voice was stiff, struggling to decide what he wanted her answer to be, and fighting the urge to cringe at _his _awkwardness. But it was worth it to see Molly brighten - her liveliness soothed the gaping wounds inflicted by the memory of her lifeless form. He wanted to wrap her up and shield her from the life he had unwittingly thrust her into, and never, _ever _release her; never let her shine touch anyone else's life.

"My shift ended an hour ago." Molly told him shyly, much to his surprise. "If you just let me shower and change -"

"Yes." Sherlock cut her off, feigning a coolness that masked the desperation that coursed through him. "Of course." Molly closed her mouth and peered at him, but seemed to think better of it, leaving him alone in the lab (never a good idea). Sherlock wanted to follow her - his two week self-exile had left him to constantly worry. Now that he had gathered his courage, he didn't want to let her go again.

He counted every second she was gone (twenty-two minutes and forty-three seconds), relaxing only when she reappeared, in a bright red jumper and black, comfortable trousers. Her hair was damp and down, curled around her shoulders. The sight of her so open and free, without fear or pain in her face, made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat.

"You okay?" Molly asked. Sherlock could only bring himself to nod curtly, turning abruptly and stalking out of the lab to the cab he had ordered in her absence, leaving Molly to catch up. He was barely clinging to his typical aloofness and odd silences, fumbling for control over his spiralling emotions.

He needed to check the cabbie's face to ensure it wasn't... anybody he knew, and only then did he let Molly in the cab. He didn't allow the middle seat to separate them. He squeezed in beside her as closely as he could, without an explanation to her searching glances.

"'Ere we are." The cabbie needlessly said once they reached Baker Street. Molly thanked him softly, and Sherlock brushed off her attempt to pay him and threw a wad of bills over the man's shoulder without a word, ushering Molly out of the car and up to the flat.

"I will make tea." He muttered, because it was too late in the day for her to want coffee, not when she had the night off. He busied himself in the kitchen, not bothering to remove his jacket or gloves. He was just pouring the water into the two mugs, when Molly's small right hand curled around his arm.

"Sherlock." She said gently and patiently, her voice drenched in emotions and deeper meanings that he just could not fully grasp. He also found that he could not ignore that shade of her tone, one he hadn't heard before, looking down to her probing eyes.

"Molly."

"When was the last time you slept?" Sherlock huffed at the question and pulled away to throw the tea bags in the bin and add the appropriate amount of sugar and milk.

"I don't sleep when I'm working."

"You don't have a case."

"Not with Scotland Yard, I assure you that there are many people looking for my expertise who provide enough -"

"_Sherlock." _Molly said firmly, a touch of exasperation, and Sherlock saw the determination in her eyes and wondered how he had ever missed the strength she so naturally possessed. There was always something, but Sherlock continued to regret such a blatant error in judgment.

"Come on," Molly said, tugging at his sleeve, leading him out of the kitchen and away from the tea that he had made _without being prompted. _He didn't fight her, because he was exhausted and without energy, sapped by the weight of his nightmares. She walked to his bedroom without asking for directions, and Sherlock made a note to find out how she knew where his bedroom was. She peeled his jacket and gloves off of him and leaned down to take off his shoes. This time Sherlock didn't even need her persuasion to lie down, comforted slightly by the knowledge that he wasn't alone to face his demons. Molly shut the blinds as his eyes followed her lithe and comfortable movements and wished that the ring she wore around her neck had never been introduced as another factor that limited his actions.

"Try and sleep - you really do look terrible." Molly whispered to him. He sat up when she tried to leave, and he was thankful that she understood without forcing him to tell her (this weakness for her was already an immensity he struggled with). She climbed onto the bed and grasped his head gently, curling around him. Their faces were too close, and Sherlock could not _think._

"Sherlock...?"

"Molly." He shook off the primal urge that coursed through him, and moved his head so it was against her heart, seeking refuge in the rhythm. He suddenly seemed to be near tears and shut his eyes tightly to hold them back, and gave into Molly's soothing stroking through his hair.

* * *

"Caring is not an advantage." Mycroft reminded him idly, utter disdain seeping into his voice.

"You don't fucking _need _people. You're _better._" Victor sneered, handing him the needle.

"What about sentiment, darling? Isn't that the chemical defect?" The Woman cooed, her naked form pressing against him in ways that no longer interested him.

_"Freak." _Donovan snarled. "Why can't you just leave anyone alone? All you do is drag people _down." _

"You have no _heart." _

"We both know that's not quite true." Moriarty told him in his curling lilt.

Their faces all went dark and left only Moriarty, holding out Molly by her throat.

"I made such a _mistake!" _He shouted, jostling Molly's bleeding body. She gasped at the pain of the controlled movements. Silent tears streamed from her eyes that she wouldn't direct at Sherlock. "How _did _I miss this little piece of the puzzle? If only I'd _known _about her - I would have had you on puppet strings!"

"Let her go." Sherlock found his voice. "Do what you want with me. Let her go." Moriarty only laughed, and Sherlock lost focus. "Molly. _Molly. _Look at me. _Please." _She refused, whimpering and closing her eyes, where _"I O U" _was carved in each eyelid, weeping blood.

Moriarty tutted.

"Look at what _yooooou've doooone!" _He sung and laughed, drawing a knife across Molly's throat with one easy movement. Molly died without a sound, and Sherlock _yowled _amid Moriarty's screaming laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock - _Sherlock_!" He jerked out of his torment, strangled on his own air. He looked to Molly, who stood upright next to the bed, tears slipping down her cheeks as she reached for him.

He lunged.

"Did I hurt you?" He demanded harshly, pressing his fingers to every inch of her skin, despite how she struggled, convinced he would find physical evidence to condemn him.

"_What? _No. _No - _Sherlock, you were _screaming, _how long has this been going on?" She tried to distract him by wrapping him close to her, her fingers slipping back into his hair. _"How long, Sherlock?"_

"Since I returned." He mumbled against her collarbone, pushing closer when he felt her shudder under his mouth.

"Have you told anyone? Sherlock, you can't _live_ like this." He shook and shook his head, feeling panic grip him.

"_Yes, _Sherlock. What _happened _to you while you were gone? What were you seeing? You were shouting my name. _Talk to me." _She pulled him back by his hair and pressed their foreheads together while he choked and fell apart in front of her. The details of the unending torture of his night terrors escaped him as he trembled. Still gripped with the echoes of the dream, it didn't feel like Moriarty had lost and he had won, in ways that no doubt would have amused James Moriarty.

And this all poured out of his dry throat in a hoarse voice that he didn't recognise as his own. His barriers and fail-safes were gone: he was stripped bare and vulnerable, but the only thing that scared him was that she would come to her senses, and run from him before he could destroy her completely. His hands lifted and tightened over her forearms at the striking thought because he was selfish, and he would never let her leave him. She had had the sheer audacity to become his mind, his heart: the voice in his head that told him to hope. He was utterly hers, but she wasn't his. He wouldn't let her run. She _could not _abandon him as he did her, because Sherlock was not as strong as Molly Hooper.

"It's okay, I'm here, we're all fine. You saved us, Sherlock. _You did." _Molly whispered calmly to him, though the roar of his sudden self-awareness blocked most of it. "It was just a dream. It's okay, Sherlock."

_But it isn't, _he thought, _my mind is all I have, and I'm losing it._

"Don't." Molly hissed at him. She pushed at his shoulders and jerked away, and he realised that he said that out loud. "You have John, and now Mary. You have Greg and Mrs. Hudson and your brother - yes, _him too -" _She insisted at his grimace, "and me, Sherlock, you have me."

This was one of those defining moments, Sherlock realised. The ones that John would always jabber on about. He was looking into the furious eyes of Molly Hooper, with her steady hands and open heart, and an engagement ring around her neck. So when his phone went off, he picked it up and removed himself from Molly and his own emotions.

"It's Lestrade. I'm needed." Was all he could think to say to her when he glanced at the text and before he walked away. Surely that was what he should do? What John would have said to be the _kinder _thing. And he needed to be kind, because he had spent far too long being cruel and he didn't know how else to make up for that.

* * *

He fully expected Molly to tell John or Mycroft about his nightmares. He expected to be dragged off of the crime scene of a moderately engaging homicide, and hauled into sleep clinics and therapist's offices, to repeat the mindless cycle he had endured in rehab.

But no one came, not even Mycroft, and he was vaguely disappointed. Perhaps this was what was referred to as "the moment of choice," and Molly had made the smarter decision.

He made a note to find a new morgue.

* * *

John was infuriated when he walked into the flat to see Sherlock flailing on the couch, drenched in sweat. His so-called "only friend" jabbed him mercilessly with the walking stick he still _really _didn't need, hard enough that he left bruises on Sherlock's side.

Sherlock found that he preferred Molly's methods of waking him, scowling as John yelled.

"How long have you been having these?"

"Not long." It was a lie, and John saw it. Sherlock thought to explain the single-minded focus that drove him those two years, and with it over, his brain had been left wallowing. He then thought better of it.

"Sherlock - this sounds like bloody PTSD, _how _could you keep this from me of all people? If you bloody remember, I do have some experience with the damned disorder. You could have _come to me." _

"For what purpose?" Sherlock snapped, "So you could take me to an endless supply of doctors, each with a different theory as to what is "wrong" with me, each with a different solution to "cure" me? Molly exaggerated this little... problem, I am _perfectly -"_

"Hold on - _Molly? _Molly _Hooper?" _John interrupted with furrowed confusion. "What does she have to do with - oh, for God's sake! She _knew _about this as well? Why didn't she _say _anything? Why am I always the last to _bloody find out these things?_" A queer feeling enveloped Sherlock as John stamped and huffed. She hadn't shared the information with anyone. She had stopped caring.

Anger flooded him. How _dare _she?

He stood abruptly, cutting John off. "We will have to continue this later, John, I have something that requires my urgent attention." He threw on his coat and whisked out of the flat, intent without a plan, and ignoring John's indignant swearing.

* * *

He knew her schedule and she wasn't working or on call. Her social life had never been extensive, so the only remaining possible explanation as to why she refused to answer her door was that she was with _Tom, _a thought that made him burn. Just as he was about to break the door down, Molly's light footsteps approached, and the door was unlocked and opened.

She had been in the shower - alone - Sherlock observed with some relief from her damp hair and the way her clothes clung and bunched against her skin. Her expression was open and confused, which only fueled Sherlock further.

"Sherlock, uh, hi, sorry, I was in -"

"The shower, _yes."_ Sherlock snarled, because although he couldn't smell Tom on her, he was terrified that the little usurper was here. He stormed into the flat without her permission and unleashed his sight on her modest flat, the flat of a... _single woman. _Any hint of a significant partner had been wiped clean - _recently; _a box labeled "Tom" was set just beside the door.

Slowly, Sherlock turned, to Molly, who leaned against the door, a tired look on her face, as she waited for him to reach his conclusions. Her ring finger and neck were joyously bare.

"The engagement ended." He said quietly, unable to keep the hopeful note to his voice subtle. Molly nodded. "Why?" Molly shrugged, almost wearily.

"I do - _did - _care for Tom." She said quietly. "But it seemed unfair to continue a relationship when I'd rather hold you platonically while you slept, or wait here alone for you to come crashing in, instead of a date night with him. He deserved better." Her smile was a disaster of an attempt, and she looked at him nervously.

"You would have had a good life with Tom; an easy one." Sherlock told her, almost chiding. He had seen how free the other man was with his thoughts and feelings and affections. He was dull and boring, no doubt, but genuine. He would never have made Molly cry or question her own worth with razor sharp words that he didn't consider.

Molly - _infuriatingly_ - shrugged again. "Yeah, I would've. But it isn't fair to Tom."

"And you?" Sherlock pushed. The painful smile that Molly forced didn't hide the fact that her eyes were brimming with tears.

"I gave up on you years ago, Sherlock." She admitted, stealing Sherlock's breath from him. "But - somehow, you continue to have a hold over me. I thought I had moved on with Tom, but then you showed up and it became clear that... well. He just wasn't you." She pressed her fingers to her eyes and rubbed them roughly, and Sherlock considered how much better off she would be if they could find it in each other to walk away.

"You didn't tell anyone about my sleeping."

"If there is one thing I've learned about you, Sherlock, is that you need to be on board with stuff like this. I wasn't going to force you into anything. You ran away from me - twice. I was waiting - giving you space."

And wasn't that just their relationship in its simplest form: Sherlock's carelessness and Molly's unrelenting patience.

He stepped towards her gingerly. His reaction felt fundamental, and he needed to do this properly. Yes, he should let her go and she should walk away, but they weren't going to. They were both selfish and thoughtless in their own ways.

Molly met his gaze unflinchingly, her hands clutched together over her heart, watching him carefully. She didn't protest or jerk away from his touch when he cupped her face with his large hands. He pressed his mouth to hers, gently, chastely; testing her reaction. When all she did was make a soft noise and opened her mouth, heat slammed through him. He kissed her more firmly then, still hesitant, waiting for Molly to gather her senses.

But she didn't, if anything she pushed harder against him, her familiar touch in his hair that sparked prickles of pain. She shivered as his hands traced her warm skin and wet hair, and a part of Sherlock began to wonder if this too was a nightmare, masked as a dream. So he clutched her tightly and tried to memorise every sensation that assaulted him.

It was Molly who finally pulled away, much to Sherlock's distaste. She resisted his attempts to reattach their lips with a smile, understanding the irritating need for oxygen.

"_Is _this a dream?" Sherlock asked her quietly. Vehemently, Molly shook her head.

"No. This is real." She thumbed the bow in his lips with a nail, sending violent shivers down his spine. "Real. I swear." She said, almost smug.

With a heavy sigh of relief, Sherlock swept her fully into his arms and tossed his reservations away. He buried his face into her throat so he could taste her rapid pulse. She continued to pet him, which he knew she knew soothed him, until his muscles began to liquify and his eyes drooped. Molly chuckled and pushed him away.

"You need sleep." She reminded him firmly, grasping his hand and tugging him towards her room. When they reached it, Sherlock stood stubbornly, waiting for her to roll her eyes and remove his outer clothing. Only then did he allow her to nudge him into a lying position, and join him.

"It will be okay, Sherlock." Molly murmured as he loomed over her body, toying with her damp hair and the curve of her chin. "We'll deal with this. You'll - _we'll _be absolutely fine." Sherlock waited until she was on the precipice of sleep to respond.

"Promise?" He demanded softly, finding it easier to be vulnerable in front of her. She stirred sleepily and turned to face him blindly.

"Promise." She vowed. The absolution in her voice ghosted over his face, feeling strongly like hope. He held her tighter then, and surrendered, anchored in her presence.

* * *

_And once again thank you for bearing through my soppy sentimentalism. Despite being cynical enough to cringe away from it, I seem to be very capable of writing a hell of a lot of it. I refuse to believe that two years of killing criminals left no mark - the writers chose to show it through renewed emotions and drug abuse, I would like to also suggest nightmares. Anyway, I hope I provided some enjoyment - thank you all for reading and reviewing!_


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